


Appetence

by Dovahlock221



Series: Panic [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caring Greg Lestrade, Caring Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Panic Attacks, Panicked Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9189578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/pseuds/Dovahlock221
Summary: No matter what John is saying Sherlock shakes his head and says, "No. Stay with me."It's too much to ask and Sherlock knows it, but if there is one thing John Watson can do for him other than take a bullet, he can goddamn live afterwards.





	1. Chapter 1

The bullet was meant for him. The goddamn bullet was meant for him.

And now he can't breathe. Because John Watson is crumpled on cold hard cement that is covered with his own blood. And Sherlock can't fucking _breathe_.

It feels as if his lungs aren't there anymore and his heart has decided to start running a marathon. He doesn't even feel the pain in his knees as he gracelessly falls to the ground beside his best friend that just took a bullet for him. The buzzing in his ears makes it hard to tell if he's whispering or screaming at John "Stay with me."

_"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. Forgive me, John."_

Time flies.

Sherlock hands are covered in blood and no matter how hard he presses down more seeps through the cracks between his fingers. Words are pouring out of his mouth at the same rate blood falls out of John.

Their eyes connect and Sherlock swears he can see the reflection of his own hurt in John’s. In the moment, the realization that one event can change everything terrifies Sherlock. Fear courses through his body similar to an electric charge, which leaves him a shivering mess in its wake.

John's mouth is moving, but the buzzing in Sherlock's ears has become so loud that it's turned into a dull ringing. No matter what John is saying Sherlock shakes his head and says, "No. Stay with me."

It's too much to ask and Sherlock knows it, but if there is one thing John Watson can do for him other than take a bullet, he can goddamn live afterwards.

* * *

Hands suddenly on him and Sherlock can swear he sees red. Angry words pour from his mouth as gentle words try to calm him. It’s no use. He is anything but calm as John is pulled away from him even though he clings onto the man like a lifeline. Wires, tubes and things that Sherlock cannot see are being attached to John in seconds. He doesn't care for the names or the function of them, as long as they keep John alive.

The same hands are pulling him to his feet and then further and further away from John. Breathing becomes that much harder as he is leaned against a wall, immediately sliding down until he hits hard cement.

He can’t see John anymore so he stares at his blood covered hands, surprised to see them blurry. Wetness coats his cheeks and for some reason that scares him even more than the blood soaked into the cuffs of his coat. Why is his body reacting this way? His transport knows better than this. Mind and body trained not to react.

_John. Wrong._

The buzzing in his ears has started to fade and the first sound that comes through is a voice, a very worried person saying, “Jesus, Sherlock.”

The hands are back. Strong hands rubbing up and down his shoulders drags him closer to the surface of reality and what exactly are those hands trying to accomplish? The hands are shivering. It is most certainly _not_ him.

It doesn't really matter anyway. He has given up any attempts to crawl his way back up. He'll do anything to stay away from the harsh repercussions of tonight’s events. Fire burns its way up his throat, exhaling out into the world with no returning inhale. One of the hands that is pointlessly rubbing his arms, brutally connects with his face, but he can barely feel the sting. The ability to feel anything right now has become a distant skill. An empty void with the only specimen able to fill it, lying in an alleyway fighting for his life.

"Breathe, dammit!" A rough voice grates in his ear, too close. Is he not breathing? And why is everyone always yelling at him?

Looking up and trying to blink the blurriness out of his eyes, Sherlock gets a glimpse of John being loaded into an ambulance. A short gasp of air is sucked into his lungs and god does it burn. His eyes connect with a familiar face, Lestrade, before he is shoving him out of the way. The movement is surprisingly weak and he is pushed back down again. The impact of the ground causes a wisp of air to catch in his throat and he is left coughing as Lestrade shouts, “Just go! We’ll meet you there!”

Enough sense is left in Sherlock’s mind for him to realize Lestrade is directing someone to take John away. _Away from him._

“No!” His voice comes out weak and gasping. “Wait. P-please, don’t take him.”

“Sherlock, stop!” Pushing, shoving, anything to get to John. But he is too weak, his efforts useless.

“I have to- to be there. I have to-“ Sherlock pleads, finally making eye contact. “Please, Greg.”

Lestrade shakes his head, sadness clouding his eyes. “Let’s get you taken care of first. You gotta breathe, kid.”

At first, Sherlock is angry. How dare Lestrade keep him from John. Leaning his head against the wall, Sherlock tries. If breathing is the only way he can see John he will do it. _Whatever it takes._

But his first attempt is too harsh and his lungs protest. He ends up coughing again, making his chest ache. “Fuck,” Sherlock cries in frustration, moving his head forward only to slam it back against the wall again.

“Don’t do that.” Lestrade places a hand behind his head and Sherlock glares at him for the unnecessary precaution. “Start slow. In through your nose for five seconds and out your mouth for five.”

The demand makes him feel like a child, but he follows along anyway, only managing a short inhale. This time he doesn't end up coughing and the success feels monumental. _One step closer to John._

“Good. Again.”

Sherlock feels the presence of someone else standing close by. Tilting his head up, he sees Donovan. The look in her eyes tells him she is struggling between wanting to help and staying far away. She moves closer and crouches on his right, opposite of Lestrade. Decision made then.

She places a seemingly reluctant hand on his arm. “The ambulance is on its way to hospital. His condition is serious, but the paramedics seemed optimistic.”

The information is pointless. _Of course John’s condition is serious_ , he thinks, managing a small smile in thanks to the useless information before grimacing at the effort of taking another breath.

“He ok?” Donovan asks, glancing up.

No words come in response to the question, so Sherlock assumes Lestrade mouthed the issue to her. It makes no difference. Sherlock knows what this is. Panic attack. He once helped John through one after a particular bad nightmare. Well, helped, is a strong word. He’d spent most the night fumbling around John wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. John reassured him that his presence was enough, but it didn't help Sherlock to stop feeling useless.

The wish that John was here helping him through this is strong and in a weird twisted way it makes sense. Where they always going to end up here, John in the back of an ambulance struggling to live and Sherlock in an alleyway struggling to breathe? If Sherlock was a different man, he might say it was poetic.

* * *

 


	2. Part Two

Ticking clocks are the stupidest clocks in Sherlock’s opinion. He has been glaring at it without noticing the time. Who would put such an annoying monstrosity in a hospital waiting room anyway? The ticking feels similar to a countdown to something horrible. John has been in surgery for what feels like hours. It feels wrong. Everything feels _wrong._

Thoughts, deductions, sentiment, are flying through his head at a rapid speed but the only one that matter is _John._ _I’m going to lose him._ It’s an unbearable thought and one that Sherlock can only think of feeling similar to losing a limb. You know it should be there, but all the sudden it’s gone. Now you’re lost and fumbling your way through life with a whole piece of you missing. The haze of loss not even making sense to you.

The panic has reduced itself to a dull ache in his chest. A knot has formed in his throat that he can neither swallow around nor cough out. It feels vile; constantly on the edge of vomiting, but not having the energy to do so.

“You ok?”

Sherlock blinks the haze from his eyes to look at Greg. Though he would never say, Sherlock appreciates the man’s presence and support. It’s probably written all over his face anyway. He has already given up putting on a mask after tonight’s events; his mask ripped entirely off his face in that horrid alleyway.

Sherlock shakes his head, a short jerking motion, still blinking his eyes. Moisture is gathered at the corner as it has been all night, as though someone has turned on a tap inside him.

A rough hand lands surprisingly gentle on his shoulder. Greg hesitates for a moment and Sherlock knows that he can feel the tremors wracking through his body.

“Sherlock..” He trails off and Sherlock looks at him again, trying to deduce him. Anything to rid the thoughts of John not making it from his head. “If you feel another…Just let me know and we’ll go somewhere quiet, yeah?”

Sherlock nods, trying his best to look grateful. “Thank you,” he whispers, the roughness of his voice shocking him. The words burn in his throat and it makes his eyes well up all over again. Greg looks worried and Sherlock does all he can to swallow around the knot and calm his features.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it’s a terrible idea, but before he even thinks about it, Sherlock is staring at his hands. His blood covered hands.

_John._

_John’s blood._

The urge to throw up isn’t just a distant feeling anymore and in a frantic moment, Sherlock is away from Lestrade’s comforting presence and shoving his way into the bathroom. The stall door bangs against the wall as he falls to his knees and everything in his stomach forcefully comes out his throat. Just the sound of it makes him gag again, the knot burning and the moisture finally forming into tears in his eyes, falling down his cheeks. He slams an angry fist into the floor as he heaves again, breathing harshly through his nose. The burning of his knuckles is a surprisingly welcome distraction so he does it over and over.

Shortly after he hears the bathroom door being pushed open, knees appear in his peripherals. A hand blocks his next punch to the floor and another rubs up and down his back.

Sherlock sucks in a rough breath through his nose. He recognizes those hands. He had thought it would be Lestrade coming to his aid once more. Instead it is Mycroft’s hand that he weakly punches once more.

His vision is blurry, but he can just barely make out Mycroft’s worried expression. His brother isn’t even trying to hide his concern and that alone make Sherlock feel sick all over again. “It was supposed to be me,” Sherlock gets out, before he is heaving into the toilet once more.

“I know.”


	3. Chapter 3

The hard plastic chair digs into Sherlock's body in the most annoyingly uncomfortable way. His hands are clean now, but his mind supplies him with the image of blood anyway. There is a warm ghost sensation coating his hands and he rubs them together constantly trying to will it away.

Mycroft had held his hands under the icy water of the sink after observing that Sherlock was shaking too badly for the task and every clumsy attempt to clean them ended in him splashing himself. Watered blood hitting his face left Sherlock to staring in the mirror, anguished. That was the coup de grâce for Mycroft apparently, because the next thing he knew his hands were gently clasped in his brother's and being cleaned with soap and water. Mesmerized, Sherlock had watched, hoping that the last piece of John he would ever hold wasn't now swirling down the drain.

Afterward, Sherlock was left grasping the edge of the sink fighting to keep his breathing under control. Mycroft stayed close by. An abnormal comfort, but Sherlock was grateful for it. He had known for a while that without John, holding himself together would be a difficult task.

Glancing up, Sherlock had caught eyes with Mycroft in the mirror. He hadn't seen Mycroft look this worried in…well, a long time. "Dr. Watson will be fine, I assure you," Mycroft had said with a deep sigh.

It was as close to sentiment as Sherlock had seen him get. In fact, this whole night was. Obviously, Mycroft was willing to do or say anything at this point. The shock from witnessing such uncharacteristic behavior in his brother had visibly been displayed on his face.

The strain of holding himself up had become too much at that point and Sherlock found himself sliding down a porcelain tiled wall that he had thankfully gravitated towards. He hugged his knees and placed his head on top of them.

"Would you like to be alone?" Mycroft had asked, from above him.

"Would you let me be, if I wanted?"

"Absolutely not."

Sherlock had smiled for the first time that night, connecting eyes with his brother who smiled tightly as well.

After sitting in silence for a while, Greg had come in to make sure everything was alright, giving them a perplexed look. Now, Sherlock was in between his brother and Greg, the three of them staring at that damned clock. Sherlock tried to let warmth from the paper cup of tea radiate through his body and settled in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos on this story! Chapter 4 will be coming soon and will hopefully be longer! Comments are always appreciated <3


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